


Whiskey in the Jar

by WolffyLuna



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: (the inspired by song kind; not the lyric quoting kind), Bad Decisions, Blue-Purple Hawke, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Femslash, Dual Identities, F/F, Friends With Benefits, Gallows Humor, Hawke is not the greatest person, Heist, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Third Person Limited, Secrets, Set in Act 1, Songfic, Surprisingly Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 06:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16528880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: Dating a member of the city guard when you’re a thief is not a good idea, but Hawke never specialised in good ideas. And hey, it’s not like Aveline was going to find out about her career.





	Whiskey in the Jar

**Author's Note:**

> _I counted out his money and it made a pretty penny_  
>  _I put it in me pocket and I took it home to Jenny_  
>  _She sighed and she swore that she never would deceive me_  
>  _But the devil take the women for they never can be easy_ \--'Whiskey in the Jar', The Dubliners. 
> 
> There are some warnings for this fic that are either spoilers, or are hard to sum up in a tag. They are in the end notes if you want to check them.

When you’ve just got out of your indentured service, there’s only one place to go. When the business opportunity of a life time falls in your lap, and hey, you can delay getting the funds a little bit, there’s only one place to go. When your home is a tiny shithole in Lowtown with three other people in it, one of whom is enough of an asshole to count as a whole five people, there’s only one place to go.

You go to a bar, and you live a little.

And if you’re a Friend of the Warden (if you’re Fereldan) or Hung by Your Feet (if you’re from Kirkwall) or have a tendency towards Edifying Romantic Friendships (if you’re squeamish), there’s one bar you go to.

The Hanged Man.

Hawke lounged out one of the tables, swirling a brown substance that swore up and down it was whiskey around her glass. She was gonna get laid. Or if that didn’t work: she was gonna get sloshed.

She kept an eye on the people milling about. Sure, it’d be nice if someone spotted her and came over, but she’d done this dance enough times to know that your best bet would be to make a move yourself.

Someone ordered a drink at the bar. Tall. Redhead. Built like brick shithouse. Built like she lifted brontos for a living. Built like she could pick Hawke up and throw her right over the wall.

So, exactly her type.

Hawke walked over in her best approximation of a swagger. “Hey, you a friend of the warden?” It always paid to get the ‘you like ladies? I like ladies’ flag waving out of the way quickly, to avoid even more dancing round the issue.  And to get the ‘how do you feel about Fereldans,’ out of the way too.

“Certainly. She and her wife are very lovely together.”  And the woman turned around—

\-- _Maker, it’s Aveline_.

Aveline, who she talked to only this afternoon about freelancing for the guard. Aveline, the one with the dead husband. Aveline, who Hawke could have sworn was straight.  (Then again, you know what they say about army girls…)

Aveline seemed to be having a similar ‘Maker, it’s Hawke’ moment.

The sensible thing would be to back up a step. Acknowledge they know each other. Sure, they’d learned more about each other than they’d expected, but it was mutual. No room to judge. Just acknowledge it.

Hawke prided herself on rarely being sensible. On bulling ahead in any situation. Plus, Aveline was turning as red as her hair, and fast action was needed to stop her bolting through the door. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?” Hawke grinned.

Aveline smiled wanly, still as red as Andraste’s undergarments. “Uh, well, my husband died a while ago. I thought I’d let my hair down, take the opportunity to do something I haven’t done in a while.”

 “I’m happy to be an opportunity.”

Aveline paused. Like she was trying to work out if they’d talked enough to skip to the part they all knew they heading for.

“I’ve got a room upstairs,” Hawke said.

“Mind if I join you?”

It was awkward. As it always was when you first bedded someone, trying to puzzle out each other’s bodies and explain your own body’s quirks.

As it would be when you’re trying to pretend you don’t know each other.

But it worked.

By the Maker, _it worked_.

With Aveline’s thighs crushing her head, with Hawke leaving finger deep bruises in her freckled flesh, it worked.

 

***

 

Hawke snuck back home, just as the sun turns the constant clouds grey. Better to look like she just had a night of drinking, than a night of _staying_. At the very least, she’d look frugal, if not proper. Her family had a reputation to maintain in Kirkwall, apparently.

She padded in through the door, careful not to wake Carver as she slipped into their shared room. She fell face first into the bed, maybe more clothed than she should be.

Leandra banged about in the kitchen.

Hawke dragged herself out of bed with her hands. It is way too early to pretend to be an awake human. But the noises from the kitchen sounded like breakfast, and breakfast was not a thing you just missed.

“Hello, Marian,” Leandra said, as Hawke shuffled into the kitchen.

She slumped into her chair “Good morning.”

The rest of the household dragged themselves in one by one, awoken by metal ladles and the smell of cooking oats. (Oats and water. They weren’t a milk sorta family.)

There were mumbled pleasantries, or as pleasant as Gamlen was ever going to be at ass o’clock in the morning, a hurried grace, and then bowls clattered to the table.

“So, how was everyone’s days?” Leandra asked.

“Stuff. Things. Job opportunities,” Carver said, around a mouthful of porridge.

“Same here. Say, at what point is it strange to court a widower? I met someone yesterday—“

“A _widower_ ,” Carve said, deadpan.

Hawke pressed on “—and we really hit it off, but their spouse died last year or so.”

“It’s wonderful to hear that, Marian. Already meeting people, thinking about romance… A year is traditional, but it of course it varies person to person. But if you hit it off, I’d say enough time has passed.”

“Hit it off—“ Carver said in the same tone, before Hawke kicked him in the shins. “What?” he whispered, “It’s not like mother can judge.”

 

***

 

Hawke, Anders, and Merrill surrounded Varric—both as something to block sight; and as something make it look more normal, just mercenaries lounging around—as he picked the lock to a Hightown mansion’s window.

“So, Hawke, how does your guard girlfriend feel about this?” Varric asked.

Hawke smiled, a peppy-jokey cover over a deep vein of _oh shiiiiit_. _Oh shiiiiiiit._  “I know it must be confusing, humans sometimes not having beards and all, but I am a girl.”

Varric turned from his lock picking, looking deeply unimpressed. “Hawke. I literally live in the Hanged Man.”

Hawke panicked for an instant, wondering if he had seen them, before remembering who the sorta person who lived in the Hanged Man was.

Varric started counting off on his fingers. “Blondie’s holding a torch for the guy he stabbed, and Daisy—and Daisy is whatever Daisy is.” Varric turned to face Merrill. “Do you like girls?”

“Whyever would I not?”

“See? Daisy’s one of us. So, guard girlfriend: how does she feel about this?”

“Doesn’t know, and shouldn’t find out. This’ll be a quick 50 sovereigns, and then it’ll never happen again.”

Varric turned back to picking the lock. “You’re optimistic.”

There was a pause.

“Maker-damnit,” Anders muttered.

Hawke span round, in case Anders had spotted trouble.

“I just realised,” Anders continued, “That I’m such a close Friend of the Warden I _literally_ am one.”

“Pffft.”

Window hinges creaked as Varric opened them. “Well, she’s all ours.”

They climbed in through it, most of them with a modicum of stealth. Hawke caught Merrill before she crashed to the floor and woke all of Hightown.

“Sorry about that, I’m only this clumsy in the city,” Merrill whispered.

“Not a problem,” Hawke whispered back.

They padded through the corridors, picking knick knacks and candleholders and anything else that was valuable, not nailed down, and could fit in a bag. It may not have been the most expensive stuff in the house, but it was the easiest to grab, and that’s what mattered. 

“Why exactly did you bring us?” Anders asked. “We’re not thieves.”

“You’re intimidation. You’re the scary scary apostates that’ll make the guards think twice about trying to bash our heads in,” Hawke said.

Anders made a grumpy ‘hmpff’ sound.

“Are we really that scary?” Merrill asked.

“ _You_ are,” said Anders.

Varric grabbed random bottles of whiskey and spirits out of a cabinet. “Could we cut the byplay, please?”

They shut up right quick. Which was good, Hawke thought, considering they were coming near the front of the house. If you were rich, but only rich enough for one guard, you put ‘em out front. Hawke had never quite worked out why they did that. Intimidation?

They made their way down to the dining room, through the kitchen. Either there was no guard out in the foyer, or they were one of the eerie quiet ones. “Okay, we grab the silverware—“ Hawke whispered, “Varric checks if the front door is clear, and we get out.”

Anders looked like he thought she’d gone mad. “The front door? I thought the whole window malarkey was to avoid going through the bloody front door. ‘Hello city guard, don’t mind us coming out of the mansion with these suspicious sacks. We’re _totally_ not thieves.’”

“They’ll be up the other end this time of night. We act natural, we’ll be fine.”

“Did Aveline tell you this?”

“No, I’ve just got eyes and a working memory. Now _come on_.”

They grabbed cutlery by the handful out of the drawers—and then, ever so careful, placed it in the bags so it didn’t jingle and make a noise.

There was clatter. High pitched. Metallic. _Loud._

The sound of an elegantly engraved spoon hitting stone.

“I’m so sorry—“ Merrill said.

Something else clattered outside the room. Metallic, as well.

Armour.

Merrill stood paralysed next to the spoon, muttering apologies.

Anders –with a speed presumably born of practice – dived into a cupboard and hid.

Honestly, what was the point of bringing the scary scary apostates with you if they were going to hide or freeze?

Hawke stepped towards the door, covering the sound of her footsteps with the guard’s.

Varric cocked Bianca. “Don’t get in the way.”

She squished herself into the corner between the door frame and the wall. Drew her knives.

The guard strode in, sword drawn. His eyes swept across the room. Saw Merrill. Saw Varric. Missed Hawke.

And the guard had no pauldrons on.

Her knives flashed out, got him square in the shoulder.

He tried to scream, but was rather too shocked to suceed. He opted to collapse, instead.

Hawke grabbed the knife. Grabbed a bag. “Let’s go!” She ran to the front door.

Varric was only a second behind.

Merrill hesitated. “And leave him there?”

“He’ll be right.”

“With a hole in him?” Varric said, unconvinced. He kept running towards the door, dragging a bag almost as tall as he was.

“Anders is soft touch.” Hawke barrelled through door shoulder first.

The night air was cool. Quiet. No city guards. She let herself have a brief moment of vindication, as she sprinted down the stairs.

They caught up in a courtyard, Merrill and Varric and her. Merrill leaned against a column to catch her breath.

“We split up,” Varric said. “And the come back round to the Hanged Man and split the take. Leave a quarter for Blondie, in case he manages to drag his ass out. And Hawke?”

She turned to face him.

“Wash yourself before we meet up, okay?”

It was only then she noticed the blood, turning cold and tacky, on her hands.

 

***

 

Hawke met up with Aveline again at the Hanged Man.

Not the night they split the take- that would have been gauche and weird and a good way to get caught. And anyway, they were up most of the night waiting for Anders, worried that he’d somehow walked out of the cupboard right into a Templar.

(They’d found him in Darktown the next day. He insisted on taking no money from what they got when they fenced the stuff. Might have glowed a bit.

Was miffed when they tried to donate his share, too.)

Plus, Hawke hadn’t managed to wash the bloodstain off her hands that night. Showing up with brown and flaky hands would have been suspicious. And even if she didn’t suspect anyway, not way she was letting hands like that up in her _business_.  

But a few nights later, Hawke was at the Hanged Man washing down her stresses, so was Aveline, and hey? Why pick up someone new when there was someone you’d already had fun with.

Which they did, naturally. Better than the last time, too. Less guesswork.

They lay next to each other afterwards, their skin going tacky with sweat and sticking to the each other’s.

Hawke slung an arm under her head. Small talk was the sort of thing you were supposed to do after this, right? Not just stare silently at the ceiling. Okay, maybe you were meant to do that, but Hawke had little patience for ceiling staring. “Soooooooooo…. How’s the job?”

Aveline blinked twice.

“I mean, you don’t gotta talk about it if it’d be a bad idea or whatever, but if you’re just doing that because we’re pretending we don’t know each other outside—that’s silly.”

Aveline stared up at the ceiling. “It’s same old, same old, really. There was a robbery up in Hightown. A strange one. The owners swore up and down they’d been burgled, but the guard insisted nothing happened. I have no idea who was lying.”

Hawke breathed a --hopefully subtle-- sigh of relief. The guard was fine. And Anders had patched him up and sworn him to secrecy. _Perfect_.

Aveline rolled over, and put her head on Hawke’s shoulder. Her hair tickled Hawke’s bare skin. “Maybe keep that one under your hat.”

Hawke made a gesture as if she was padlocking her lips.

“So, how’s your job going?” Aveline’s breath ghosted across her neck.

“Ehh, nothing steady. Can’t complain, I’ve got money for food, a little luxury—“ Hawke patted the bed, “—but I don’t know if I will next week, you know?”

“It’s not steady, but the city guard has a few things it would be—useful to have a non-guard do.”

 

***

 

The city guard odd jobs paid—but not a lot. Not fast enough.

She needed those 50 sovereigns. (Arguably, Gamlen needed them to, if he didn’t want to go down in history as the man who made his niece go spare and stab him a hundred.)

Anders and Merrill weren’t great on jobs, even just as scary scary apostates. Varric was competent-- more than competent-- but he ate in to the take. And she needed those 50 sovereigns _quick_. Even if she could only take on smaller prey, it’d still be worth it to not get only a half-cut.

Hawke lounged against a Hightown column, doing her best to not look like she was loitering. And doing her best to keep an eye out for marks.

The twilight sky turned the light pink and shadows soft.

A young couple strolled past, arm in arm. Maybe not more than 17 years each. Wore rich looking clothes, with fancy edging and all that crap. Looked like they were going someplace private, from the way they were giggling at each other.

Only problem with going someplace private is that it was just you, your honey bun, no guards—and whoever found you and trailed you.

Hawke pushed herself off the column and followed them, all nonchalant. Kept a good distance. They were distracted—she could have walked right behind them and she doubted they would have noticed, but there was no point taking stupid risks like that.

(There were 50 sovereigns on the line.)

She walked like she belonged, like she was a messenger or something and certainly not anything suspicious.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Nerves? Anticipation? The thrill of spotting prey? …none of those options were great, and she tried to put it out of mind.

The couple turned down into an alley. The giggling got louder.

Hawke followed them in.

They’d got themselves ensconced in a corner. Probably thought they were successfully being subtle, but Hawke could see the girl had got her hand up his shirt all the way from here, and they were so distracted that they didn’t hear Hawke saunter up.

“Having some fun, I see?” Hawke smiled.

The hand dropped out of the shirt right quick, and the boy tried to smooth down his clothes, and only added new wrinkles. “We were—I—um, she and I—uh.”

Hawke waved a hand. “Ehh, I got up to worse at my age. Young love, eh?”

The boy looked like he was trying to get his stammers under control, and say something about the eternalness of their love or some other bollocks.

The girl grabbed him by the shoulder, and pointed. She’s spotted the knife on her belt.

“Your parents know you’re here?”

“They—they might.” He blanched, and looked like he’d suddenly made the revelation about private spaces.

Hawke drew the knife. “Look, I don’t want to cause any trouble, but I’m in a bit of a tight spot. What say you give me what you can afford, and this knife stays all the way over here?”

The boy blustered. “You have no right!”

“And you have no guards.”

The girl unhooked her purse from her belt, and handed it Hawke.

“I only asked for what you could _spare_.” She grabbed a random handful of coins, and handed the purse back.

“Don’t you dare!--” The boy swung a fist at Hawke.

She swung back. With a knife.

A red cut opened along his arm. Blood poured out in a sheet, and spattered to the ground.

“Now, how about yours?”

He blinked at his arm.

“Now, are you going to leave you lady friend with all the costs, or what?”

“You stabbed me!”

“I cut you. And if you hurry up with money, you can get to a healer before you lose too much blood.”

The girl dug through her boyfriend’s pockets, and handed a fistful of coins to Hawke.

 “Thank you kindly.” Hawke made an elaborate bow, and turned on her heels. “I can recommend the clinic in Darktown.”

 

***

 

“You’re… looting the coterie corpses,” said Varric.

Hawke rifled through the bags attached to a rather dead assassin’s belt. “Whyever would I not?” She grabbed the belt as well. Leather and brass were worth a bit.

“I don’t know, to not be like them? To give them some dignity in death?” Varric pinched the bridge of his nose. “Who am I kidding: The coterie never has any dignity.”

Hawke paused, and the pulled the assassin’s boots and pants off.

“You’re looting their clothes.”

“Cloth’s worth a fair amount. So’s boots. If they didn’t want me to steal their underwear, they should have thought about that before they attacked us.”

“’They can have my smalls over my cold dead body!’” Varric said in a mocking voice. Followed by a “Maker…” muttered under his breath.

 

***

 

As much as Hawke hated to admit it, her and Aveline’s thing had gone beyond just ‘I like sex with you, you like sex with me, let’s do that.’ They’d even started have non-naked discussions in the Hanged Man. Long ones.

Sometimes, even without sex afterwards.

Hawke would even admit that she maybe had some… mushy feelings for her. Not out loud, of course. Or to Aveline.

(Mushy feelings were supposed to feel _good_ , not uncomfortable and vaguely scary. Who decided mushy feelings weren’t meant to be like this. She wanted _words_ with them.)

(…There may have been a fantasy or two about getting back from the Deep Roads stinking rich, leaving behind her criminal past, and sweeping Aveline off her feet. …which was stupid. Of course.)

(How was she so good at flirting, and simultaneously so bad at a slightly different kind of flirting!)

Tonight was a beer and discussion night—followed by sex, this time.

Sometimes a girl just needs to let off a bit of steam.

Sometime two girls needed to. Simultaneously.

The season slowly changed from summer to autumn, so ‘hot and sticky’ in the aftermath was replaced with ‘damp and cold’. Hawke wrapped herself in one of the room’s cheap blankets.

Aveline snuggled up, hard muscle under soft fat, and solved the cold problem. She nuzzled her nose into the back of Hawke’s neck.

The night time birds screamed. “One day, I’m going to work out which birds those are, and shut them up.”

Aveline huffed out a laugh.

…and now she had broken the silence once, the new silence went from comfortable to weirdly quiet (except for the scream-y birds.) “You know, I’m impressed with how law-abiding and justice-y you are.”

“I sincerely hope you’re law abiding.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “It’s like… you have principles.  …Not that I don’t have principles. I care about people other than myself. My family, my friends. But it only goes so far. You care about the whole city. You work to protect the whole city.”

Aveline sat up, supported by her elbow. “Someone has to do it.” And Maker-damnit, why was Aveline in her Avatar-of-the-Law mode so damned attractive.

Hawke kissed her cheek. “And that’s what’s impressive. That you choose to do it.”

 

***

 

Carver was off on some early morning security job thing, and Gamlen hadn’t come back from a night of… Gamlening? So it was just Leandra and Hawke at the breakfast table together.

 _Fun_.

“Marian—“ Leandra paused, and Hawke braced for whatever she was going to say next. “You’re still with that widower?”

“Yes. They’re—they’re pretty nice.”

“Mhmm. It’s just that it’s been awhile. I’m just worried that you might—“ The pause lasted even longer, and Hawke braced harder. “—Get in _trouble_.”

“I’m being, uh, rather careful.”

“I know you would. The thing is—“ She tapped her fingers on the table. “I don’t regret marrying Malcolm. I regret how quickly it happened.” She reached out and placed her hand on top of Hawke’s. It was meant to be comforting, but achieved the opposite effect. “But waiting too long has dangers too. If your widower is as nice as you say they are, you don’t want them choosing someone else before you have the chance. …And ending up in trouble on your own.”

“Uh, noted.” Hawke stood up, bowl of porridge and all, and walked out the door.

 

***

 

Hawke hid in one of the blind corners in Lowtown. She wrapped herself in a cloak, because she didn’t want to be recognised, and like, she lived here. Recognition was a risk. Even as it turned dark.

Everything about this felt gross. These people were by some standard ‘her’ people, even if some of the Kirkwallers would hate to admit kinship with a Ferelden. These were the vulnerable people, the poor and downtrod!

But she needed the money.

She’d run out of soft, doable by one person, targets in Hightown.

When she was rich, she’d make up for it. Give to charity. Fix up all Lowtown. And the Alienage too. That’s a thing you could do when you were rich and had investments and stuff. Yeah. She’d make it up. It’d be alright.

But if she was going to do that, she had to get the 50 sovereigns first.

So she waited for someone to walk past.

Someone did. A washerwoman, Hawke guessed, walking back from the laundry closer to Hightown. She smelled of it, the acrid smell of stupidly strong soap wafting off her. The coins in her skirt pocket jingled.

Hawke dashed out, and grabbed the back of her dress, and pulled her into the corner.

She was too surprised to scream.

Hawke pulled out her knife. Held it up to her throat. (Maker, this felt so gross--). “I don’t want you to starve, but neither do I.” The lie sat heavy on her tongue. “Only give me what you can.”

“Please, my brother is sick, he has children, I have children—“

Hawke held a finger up to the woman’s mouth. “Shh, shh. Only what you can give. Even if it’s just a copper.”

The woman reached into her pockets, shaking like someone in a snowdrift with no clothes. She held out a fistful coins.

Hawke took it, and sheathed the knife. “Thank you kindly, Madam.”

(Hawke went back home, counted it up, did the maths.

It barely got her closer to 50 sovereigns.

It was a whole day’s worth of washing wages. And washerwomen rarely could afford to give up a whole day’s wages.

She’d _told_ her ‘Only what she could give--‘

Hawke shook her head. Went to bed.

Didn’t sleep.)

 

***

 

It had got cold enough that they’d had sex under the covers, stuffiness and getting tangled in blankets be damned.

They cuddled face to face afterwards, Aveline’s arm slung over Hawke.

“So , how’s guard life treating you?” Her breath pushed loose strands of hair around Aveline’s face.

Aveline smiled. “You always ask.”

“I know. I want to live vicariously through your steady job. Freelance is a pain in the ass.”

“The city guard has openings.”

“I know, I know. I’d just be really bad at it. I am super bribable.”

“You know that’s not a good thing.” She still sounded affectionate as she said that.  

“I know, it’s why I’m not in the guard. So, job?”

“…There’s been a lot of robberies in Hightown. And attacks on the Coterie.”

“They can probably spare the coin.”

“I’d rather they weren’t forced too. And it’s one thing to rob Hightown. They might be robbing other places we haven’t noticed yet, that can ill afford it.”

“…yeah. Coterie still deserves to be knocked down a peg or two.” Hawke turned over. She’d made efforts not to get caught or seen… but she didn’t know what the guard knew. She didn’t know what Aveline _knew_. Her stomach dropped a foot and went cold.

…Aveline probably didn’t know about her crimes. Aveline was honourable, she’d fucking _arrest_ her if she knew. 

Unless she was love blind. She could be. That was thing that could happen.

…either way, she was probably safe. No point worrying in the middle of the night.

“Good night,” Aveline murmured against her shoulder.

 

***

 

One of the nice things about putting down half the Coterie in Kirkwall is that their lines of communication got _fucked_. Things got said out loud that shouldn’t have been. Things got said in public. No one knew who was meant to contact who.

And it also meant that random low level muscle carried notes. And sometimes that muscle picked the wrong fights… and those notes got in a certain girl’s hands.

There was satchel. It was valuable. The guard had it.

 _One_ guard had it. On a certain route. That was written on the note. Along with plans about how they were going to jump the guard that had it. 

Truly, grabbing this bag would be a _public service_ , saving poor guardsmen from the depredations of the criminals. Aveline would almost be proud!

She might even return it to the guard, and make Aveline actually proud. …if the guard turned out to be the highest bidder.

All she had to do was get the bag.

She strolled around Lowtown at night like she was armed and she lived there— both true --, following what was meant to be the guardsman’s route.

There was a scuffle in a nearby alley. With at least one armoured guy. Her guy, probably.

She sprinted towards them, sliding around the corner.

One mutton chopped fellow, in guard armour. Two coterie, wailing on him. And now Hawke, doing public service. She drew her daggers. Plunged one into a coterie bloke.

He went down screaming. And with another stab, quickly not screaming.

The mutton-chops took the opening to smash the other coterie against the wall with his shield.

That one was breathing, at least. Definitely not grabbing any satchels though.

Hawke yanked the satchel off the guardsman’s shoulder. “Thank you kindly,” she said all sugar sweet. “Now the coterie won’t need to jump you no more.”

He tried to grab at her, tried to chase her down, but he’d been injured. She trotted off as he staggered behind her.

She had a good twenty metres on him, when there was the clatter of another guardsman behind her. “Hawke?” a familiar voice shouted.

_Shit._

 

***

 

Hawke never even checked how much the guard wanted for the bag.

She ran straight to the Carta.

They wanted it. They wanted it bad. They wanted it _obscene amounts of cash_ bad.

Hawke didn’t look the gift bag in the mouth.

 

***

 

Hawke went straight to the Hanged Man after.

Aveline had arranged for a date, and Hawke wasn’t going to miss her.

If she didn’t show up, Aveline would just assume that the mysterious black haired thief was Hawke, and that she’d scared her off. And that Hawke was that thief—But if she showed up, there was a chance that Aveline would assume that Hawke wasn’t so stupid to meet up with the guardsmen who spotted her if she was a thief. Was that likely? No. Was Hawke going to take a slim chance of success over certain failure? _Yes._

And if Aveline had got a good look at her, if she was certain Hawke was that theif—Well, Hawke liked to think she had some feminine wiles. And if Aveline would turn a blind eye to crimes done by pretty faces and good tongues—that was a small enough vice. Everyone had a vice. 

Aveline had to have _one_.

Aveline sat at the bar, out of her armour but still in her padding. An undrunk tumbler of whiskey sat next to her. “Hawke—“

Hawke strode up to her. Put one hand on her hip, one finger on her mouth. “Shh, later.” She took her finger away, and kissed Aveline. All soft soft, the way she liked it.

“Hawke.”

“ _Later_.” She led Aveline to the room she’d rented (‘just in case,’ like they weren’t almost certain to use it for one thing or another. Okay maybe not completely certain, but it paid to be prepared)

Most nights they were more equitable. Tonight? Equitable could get her in the clink. Or worse, standing on the Gallows-that-ain’t-an-island. Tonight, she _performed_. She used every secret, every sensitive spot, everything she’d learned from Aveline. Used those secrets as tools. Used every singly wile she had, feminine and otherwise.

Aveline didn’t say anything except ‘Hawke,’ going from steely to pleading in a minute flat.

They lay down next to each other—not touching. Hawke tried to follow her, but Aveline pulled away every time.

“Hawke. Where’s the satchel?”

“What satchel?”

 

***

 

Hawke awoke to the sound of a door opening, and the clatter of armour.  She squinted her eyes open.

Aveline was out of bed, fully dressed in her padding, standing parade ground straight.

The fucking Captain of the _fucking_ Guard stood in the doorway, arm’s crossed. “I see you Fereldens have some creative thief catching techniques.”

Aveline ignored the comment. “I’ve apprehended her, sir.”

Hawke rolled over, and groped around on the floor. Her clothes were gone. Her _knives_ were gone. She turned back over.

Aveline had her knives on her belt.

“You— _tainted bitch_.”

Aveline ignored that comment too. Kept a straight face and straight back.

“Tell me where the satchel is. I’ll be lenient if you do,” Captain Jeven said.

“I threw it in the sea,” Hawke snarled. She didn’t care if it was a convincing lie. She cared about getting her hands around Aveline’s throat and choking that traitorous cow—

(She cared about not doing that. Cared about keeping some standards. Cared about Aveline, despite her best interests.) “It had nothing valuable. Just paper.”

“You’re either an idiot or a liar. The law doesn’t care either way.”

Hawke turned to Aveline. “You could’ve turned me in straight away.”

“I should have, yes,” she said quietly.

“You—traitor.”

Aveline huffed out a laugh, without humour. “Like the fishing for intel wasn’t a betrayal?”

“I saved that guardsman’s life!”

“And you stole something from him.”

“Why does that even matter!”

“It’s in my nature.”

Jeven walked over, and started tying Hawke’s hands behind her back.

“You’re not even letting me put clothes on? Just gonna parade me around the streets like this?”

“It doesn’t make a difference to me,” Jeven said.

Aveline grabbed something – her guard tabard – off the floor, and draped it over Hawke’s shoulders. It didn’t cover much, but it covered some.

Jeven dragged her up, and towards the door.

“When we meet in the void, I’m having words _with_ you.”

Aveline looked her straight in the eye. “I’m sure you will.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Spoiler Warnings:  
> -This ends poorly. This is not happy ending femslash.  
> -There is a scene where someone seduces someone to gain something, and the other part is not aware of that  
> -There is implied non consensual public nudity.  
> -Murder.


End file.
